


The Dull Flame of Desire

by Ghostcat, MinilocIsland



Category: SKAM (Norway)
Genre: Alsace, Alternate Universe, Anal Fingering, Blow Jobs, Getting Together, M/M, Mutual Masturbation, Outdoor Sex, Rimming, Romance, Storks, gardener!Isak
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-08
Updated: 2021-03-08
Packaged: 2021-03-13 21:16:10
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,131
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29907204
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ghostcat/pseuds/Ghostcat, https://archiveofourown.org/users/MinilocIsland/pseuds/MinilocIsland
Summary: In general, Even wouldn't consider himself a lucky guy.But, having landed a cat sitting job in an Alsatian country house for the summer, having to do nothing but lounging in the garden and editing his script, he really feels like one.If only it wasn't for this tanned, underdressed, hot mess of a problem that is the gardener.
Relationships: Even Bech Næsheim/Isak Valtersen
Comments: 46
Kudos: 143
Collections: Best AUs





	The Dull Flame of Desire

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Treehouse](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Treehouse/gifts).



> This is for our darling Modesty who has her birthday today, hurrah hurrah! 
> 
> You're the best, babe, and we hope you like your gift <3
> 
> Title from Björk with Anohni.

In general, Even wouldn’t consider himself a lucky guy. Sometimes, though, he really is.

When Marte from work told him about this guy in her building who needed a cat sitter for his summer home in France, Even’s first thought was that it sounded like a movie. Maybe not one he’d direct—more of a summery rom-com setup—but still. Being actually paid to take care of two expensive Abyssinian cats in their Alsatian countryside home for a full month— _and_ have time to finish his script meanwhile? Things like that occur in fiction, not in Even’s life.

On top of it all, he’d managed to write the final scripted scenes on the plane in a weird burst of creativity—so all he has to do now is edit. Edit and perfect for a full month. Alone. In the sun. In a beautiful countryside house. In France.

He had admittedly expected some sort of hitch. That the electricity wouldn’t work, that the next-door neighbor would be a sewage plant, or that the cats would be murderous monsters who’d attack him in his sleep.

But the house was just as fairytale pretty, the withered stone walls just as thick, and the garden just as brimming with roses and as luscious as he’d imagined. The cats, Alice and Ellen, appeared to be two golden-furred little angels. It has all been near-perfect so far.

There’s just this tiny little detail.

Apparently, Marte’s neighbor had neglected to tell her that there’d be another guy living there as well. A guy who’s already renting the caretaker’s cottage on the east side of the property, who’s been staying there for a full year studying and working on his master’s thesis with the promise of cheap rent if he takes care of the garden.

By nature, Even is a friendly person. He likes having other people around. Having someone else to talk to, someone his age who is Norwegian too is a nice surprise—especially now that he won’t need to work for a full month after all. There shouldn’t be a problem, not at all.

This guy—Isak—however, has shown to be precisely that. A problem. One hell of an underdressed, tanned, hot mess of a problem.

He claims to be working on his thesis, but Isak does seem to take his gardening duties just as seriously. More seriously even. It’s not a huge garden, quite the appropriate size for the house, and mostly containing roses, but Isak indeed does his best to keep it perfect. Every day. From morning to late afternoon.

It’s too hot to work inside, so Even has set up office in the sitting area at the back of the house where there’s a group of chairs and a hammock shaded by the chestnut trees.

Coincidentally, most of the garden is situated on the same side, and whenever Even looks up, there’s Isak.

Watering the rose bushes, back straight, arm tensing up as he lifts the watering can. On a wooden step stool, reaching for a lower branch of an apple tree and inspecting the buds with a crease of concentration between his eyebrows. Or on his knees by one of the flowerbeds—shirt riding up and toes pressed into the lawn, the tip of his tongue sticking out as he digs into the soil.

All of these things are problems on their own, but they all boil down to a single, overruling issue: Isak is hot.

Not the kind of Instagram-perfected hot that is appealing on one level but boring on every other. He's good looking at first glance and only seems to grow more attractive with every minute spent in his company. It’s not only looks either—not only his tall, straight frame and those angled shoulders, his strong, sinewy legs, or that unruly cloud of golden hair. He’s nice too, nice and _smart_.

His thesis deals with carbon sequestration in microalgae and their potential as renewable fuel, which means absolutely nothing to Even except that Isak both wants to save the planet _and_ is a genius. And, best of all, he’s easy to be around. He doesn’t talk too much when Even wants to work, talks enough when they sit down to have lunch so it doesn’t get quiet, and keeps a polite distance.

Too polite.

It’s only been three days, Tuesday to Friday, but Even feels like his eyes are already about to dry up from all the staring. Luckily, he brought his darkest shades on this trip—nearly black and large enough to hopefully disguise how he can’t tear his gaze away from Isak as he works, pruning shears in one hand and a ball of string in the other.

Apparently, it’s time to tie up the roses today. A task that Isak undertakes with the same meticulousness that he grants everything else. From behind his shades, Even watches Isak’s supple hands, how, even when gloved, he carefully avoids the thorns by holding the branches up between his long thumb and forefinger. From morning to afternoon, from one corner of the garden to the other. Yellow roses, pink, red, white. The other plants and flowers that aren’t roses, which Isak gladly names for him: iris, lilac, and, hanging from the pergola, the grape-like clusters of wisteria.

Isak’s t-shirt clings to his sweaty back and Even reaches for his laptop. Tries his hardest to focus on the screen, on the sensation of his fingertips tapping on the keys. Something, anything else than his blood-hot crotch and Isak’s thighs in those cut-off jeans he seems to wear every day.

“Do you want lemonade? I’m gonna make some.”

Even startles at the sound of Isak’s voice—he hadn’t noticed how Isak had moved up to stand just a meter away.

As the day has grown hotter, Isak’s hair has dampened. There are wavy locks curling at his temples, his forehead covered in a thin sheen of sweat just like his upper lip: shining, its jagged silhouette like a challenge.

Even swallows. “Uh. Sure.”

He drags a hand through his hair as Isak turns and disappears through the back door of the main house. Even slumps back in the garden chair and closes his eyes. Is there time to sprint up to his room and jerk off while Isak makes the lemonade?

He exhales. No. He’s here to work, not to drool over hairy thighs in cut-off jorts and the sweaty shoulders of some guy who’s also here to _work_. Isak didn’t ask to be the subject of Even’s horny, hopeless desires. This is professional work. Nothing else.

“Here.”

Once again, Even jumps at Isak appearing at his elbow. He really should up his game on those mindfulness exercises.

Out of the corner of his eyes, he watches Isak drink. The long lines of his throat working as he swallows, a drop escaping and running down his chin, getting caught by the curl of his tongue and Even’s thoughts are back to being downright despicable. He can’t help it though: the picture of his own thumb tracing that jawline, grazing the side of Isak’s neck. That mouth falling open.

The lemonade trickles down under the neck of Isak’s t-shirt, and Even bites the inside of his cheek. Grabs his own glass and winces at the cold against his palm.

“What?”

Green. His eyes are green.

Isak’s dead-on stare doesn’t give as one corner of his mouth pulls up. Even watches, equal parts enthralled and terrified, as Isak’s grin spreads from one side to the other.

Is he that obvious?

“Nothing.”

Even very deliberately returns to his laptop, keeping it firmly placed across his thighs for the rest of the afternoon.

On Saturday night, Isak explains the different rose species to him over dinner. The climbing ones and the bush roses, how one of the cultivars in the northeast corner is unique in that it has only four petals instead of five. Even doesn’t pick up much more than that—he’s too busy following the movement of Isak’s hands. The enthusiastic glint in his eyes, that beauty mark on the left side of his upper lip that is shaded by a hint of stubble.

Isak stops talking. “Am I boring you?” His jaw hangs slack in a deliberate, near-insolent manner, eyes dark, and in that moment, Isak doesn’t look nice at all. He looks.

Predatory.

Even turns his head, raises his eyebrows. “I’m, uh, no. Sorry.” Why is his heart beating so fast?

The wind blows, causing the trees to shimmer overhead, dimming them in nighttime shadows. Isak smiles and blinks softly, expression mild once more. “You must be tired probably.”

He isn’t though. At around midnight, Even finally goes to bed and instead of counting sheep, he counts steps. To the bedroom doorway, down the corridor and stairs, to the small courtyard that leads to the garden. Across to the pergola, behind him the bright blue of the window shutters that look gray in the moonlight. The stone path to the second cottage. A rabbit hopping straight to the fox’s lair.

* * *

Isak works on Sunday, so Even does too. He opens his laptop and edits. Removes a line of dialogue, changes another so that it occurs offscreen. Wonders how Isak’s denim shorts seem to have shrunk, their tidy folded near-knee-length hems transformed to frayed, threadbare, and somehow _shorter_ , before realizing that they’re a different pair entirely. Adds a comma. How many does he have and is he not wearing underwear? Removes the comma, adds an em dash.

In serendipitous counterpoint, Isak makes an edit of his own and peels his t-shirt off, wiping his back and armpits with it. Period. Throws it on the ground. The line of his spine is slick with sweat. New paragraph and the scriptwriting software auto-populates. “[EXT. Day.]” Even wants to lick that spine, taste the salt of Isak’s sweat. At this point, he’d sniff Isak's discarded t-shirt if he could. Put it over his face while jerking off. Breathe it in.

A pair of swifts fly overhead and Isak turns around, looking at Even instead of the sky. He straightens to standing and brushes his gloved palms together. “What are you writing?”

“I’m not.”

Isak laughs, licking his lips and biting the corner of his mouth. He’s got really beautiful clavicles, muscle and straight lines. “So what then?”

“I’m editing my script.” Isak squats down and grabs a small spade from the brush, puts it in the metal basket containing other gardening tools. Even can perfectly see the curves of his ass. Like the rounded pages of a book when it’s laid flat on a surface, spine-side up. “It’s, uh, it’s about a man who purchases a humanoid robot for company and things don’t go exactly as planned. The bot doesn’t behave as it should.”

Isak peels off his gloves, slaps them together. “Scary? Or-”

“No, it’s very quickly established that there’s no danger.”

“How do you establish that?

“The robot's always taking off its clothes.” Off of Isak’s expression, Even clarifies further. “And taking showers. It’s confusing, not, uh, terrifying.”

“What? Wait. Hold on.”

Isak turns on the garden hose in the back and waters the carefully tended plots of flowers and long grass to the side of the roses, thumb over the stream of water making it spray. Swiftly, using his wrist to direct it with precision. The sunlight makes rainbows out of the mist, and his task seemingly complete, Isak brings the hose up by his mouth and drinks. Great big gulping sips. The water pours down his neck and chest. Isak points the hose upwards and rains water down on himself with a delighted little yelp. He shakes his hair out as he stands, then rushes over to turn the water off, his flip flops slapping loudly against the paving stones. The tap gives with a rusty squeak.

“Sorry, you were saying?”

“He’s fully dressed.” Even grabs a towel and puts it on his lap.

Isak raises an eyebrow and squints. “The robot in the shower?”

“No, the owner. I mean, the main character. He’s not in the shower.”

“Huh.” The slow smile returns. “How does the robot not malfunction in the water?”

He shrugs. “He’s, uh, solar powered?”

“That doesn’t make sense.” Isak laughs and Even does not watch the way water drips down his chest.

“It's a 20-minute film. We don’t have enough time to go too hard with the sci-fi. It’s more philosophical than anything.”

Even swallows as Isak comes closer, running his hand in his now-wet hair. Even’s cock jerks in his shorts. Thank God for the towel.

“Can I borrow that?” Isak gestures toward his lap. Even looks down dumbly, his brain moving much slower than it usually does.

“That?”

Isak eyes roll skyward. “Your towel?”

“Oh. That.”

Isak’s outstretched hand, the impatient tilt of his head. Even’s own rock-hard cock, uncomfortably straining against his khaki shorts.

Slowly, Even shifts one leg over the other, lifting the towel up to hand it over. Hoping that the cross of his legs hides his obvious hard-on from Isak’s view.

It’s a futile attempt.

Isak’s hand closes around the towel, but his gaze is fixed beside it, straight on Even’s crotch. Even watches, nervously, as Isak’s eyes go wide, then wider.

This is it, Even thinks. This is where he’ll turn and go and never speak to me again, and the rest of this summer will be a silent hell.

He sits there, frozen, trying to will himself to get up and leave and spare Isak the trouble, when the tip of Isak’s tongue comes out. It moves slowly, from one corner of his mouth to the other, licking along his upper lip in one long lazy move. It looks every bit deliberate.

“Will you look at that,” Isak says finally.

Even swallows. “Umm. Yes, that.”

Isak drags the towel through his hair, over his chest and shoulders, then dropping it onto the ground. His gaze doesn’t leave Even’s crotch, however—it’s burning into the fabric of Even’s shorts. Even’s cock jerks again from the attention alone. From Isak’s melting dark green stare.

Even follows the movement of Isak’s hand as he lifts it up to rub at the back of his neck, as if he’s considering. His fingers, absentmindedly trailing down the side of his neck, then along the line of his sternum, his flat belly. Those abs, slowly rising and falling with his breaths.

Helpless, Even watches as Isak’s hand goes farther—down that trail of light brown hair running from his navel, thumb playing with the button of his shorts. Those ridiculous tight jorts, and that’s when Even sees it.

There’s a hole to the side of the zipper. A long diagonal tear in the fabric, and underneath is only skin. No underwear.

Even swallows as Isak’s thumb grazes the waist of his shorts, revealing the thick, defined bulge in the middle. And, peeking out just above the hem, the tip of his cock. Shiny and slick and red. Even wants to lick it, just the tip—suck at it until Isak needs to grab Even’s hair to hold his balance.

It’s not like Even hasn’t imagined Isak’s cock before, quite the contrary. But seeing the promise of the whole of it, just a layer of fabric away, is something else. _Please_ , he thinks. _Please, please_.

His mouth waters as Isak flicks open the button of his shorts, the rest of Isak’s cock coming into view as he closes his fist around it and groans—tugging down, then up the straight line of the shaft.

Even fiddles with his shorts with much less finesse, fingers trembling and stomach pulsing, Isak staring, gaze fixed on Even’s crotch, that curve of his upper lip shining from where he’s been licking it.

This will be over quickly. Even knows it as soon as he closes his hand around himself; how the soles of his feet are already tingling with the built-up tension, with the heat, with Isak’s eyes on him. The clench of Isak’s abs, his small hard nipples. His arm, moving up and down with steady, purposeful strokes. The freckles on his shoulders.

When their eyes meet it’s like a vice. A locked-in hypnosis, inescapable. Isak’s eyes, glazed over and dark.

Even can’t look away, and can’t hold back: he ups the tempo and pushes his hips into it as well, Isak’s heavy-lidded stare egging him on and he moans, bitten-off with the sharp tugs of his hand.

Isak’s shoulders shake as he mirrors Even: quick jerks of his hips in rhythm with his arm. He takes a step forward, those eyes boring into Even’s, and then he grunts, loudly, shooting over his abs, his hand, his wrist.

“Fuck.” Even sits up, those last pulsing stripes of white drawing him in, his own orgasm overtaking him. Hitting and hitting until he slumps back in the garden chair and pants.

He looks up.

Isak stands there, gaze still locked on Even’s as he bends down and picks the towel up from the grass. He wipes himself off casually and efficiently—belly, wrist, hand—and buttons up his shorts.

As if he just performed another garden chore. The pruning of a bush, the watering of a plant.

“You were doing laundry today, right?”

Even stares, dumbfounded, as Isak tosses the towel onto his lap and shrugs, hands in his pockets as he walks off and disappears around the corner of the house.

He’s so fucked.

Isak doesn’t show up again for the rest of the day: Even assumes he stays inside his cottage, hiding. They don’t have dinner together, but as Even eats a bowl of leftover salad at the kitchen counter that night, he sees the lights are on in there, the curtains drawn.

He jerks off again before he falls asleep. Draws it out and takes himself to the edge before pausing, over and over. Imagining Isak’s hands, closed around his cock, dirt under his nails.

How it would feel if Isak held him down by the hair with those hands, or if he’d press Even into the lawn and fuck his face. The dot of Isak’s upper lip is his fixture, the hint of gapped teeth below luring him in.

* * *

The next morning is just as Isak-less. The garden is peaceful and silent, the curtains in the cottage windows still drawn. Even tries to work for a bit, sitting in the same garden chair without finding either inspiration or focus. He keeps imagining movement over by the cottage, freckled shoulders behind a bush, but when he looks up there’s no one there.

After less than an hour, Even gives up and decides to go into town; he’s fresh out of bread anyway and needs something to do.

It’s not a long walk, the narrow dirt road meandering between two cornfields, up a hill and then down. His legs still feel jittery as the village church tower comes into view.

Maybe they can talk about it. Agree that what happened last night was a fluke and won’t be repeated. Even can control himself; he’s not a monster. He can let Isak be; he’ll jerk off in his room at night and act like a normal person in the daytime. If he must, he can.

The stands outside the fruit seller’s are full of different-colored berries, grapes, the odd imported orange. He always seems to forget this—how outside of Scandinavia, instead of supermarkets, there are all these little stores selling only one particular thing. For a minute, he gets lost in the variety of cabbages filling up the wooden boxes and wonders what dish he could make. Maybe he can convince Isak to eat with him tonight.

A movement at his side makes him look up, and there, as if the thought made him appear, there’s Isak exiting the door. Right in front of Even, with hair that’s as unruly as ever, but he’s clean-shaven, tanned, wearing a white shirt. His eyes widen slightly at the sight of Even, mouth opening and then tentatively pulling up at one corner in a careful sort of smile.

“Hi.”

Even licks his lips. “Hi.”

“I was gonna go shop for breakfast. Or lunch. Or whatever.” Isak laughs, a little nervously, and Even laughs too. Isak’s so cute. Even wants to stroke that tensed-up twist of his lip with a thumb and kiss it away.

“I believe it’s technically brunch when the time is-” He glances at his wristwatch, “-eleven-thirty. Don’t you?”

“Brunch. Okay.” Isak shoves his hands in his pockets, a flimsy plastic bag hanging from his wrist.

“What did you buy?”

“Oh. Juice. Apples. Some grapes.” Isak shrugs. “I put them in the freezer here and use them as ice cubes.”

Even raises his eyebrows. “Sounds awesome.”

“It is.” Isak smiles again. “We can try that later? If you want?”

He sounds so hesitant, not at all hostile or annoyed, and Even wants that anxiousness gone.

“Yes. I want that.” He takes a tiny step closer.

“Cool.” The gapped teeth behind Isak’s stretched upper lip is the sweetest thing. He looks down at Even’s mesh shopping bag. “What were you looking for?”

“Juniper berries.”

Isak laughs out loud. “Seriously?”

“What’s so funny? I heard they were delicious and a staple of Alsatian cooking.”

“Is it now?” Isak’s eyebrow is a delightful cartoonish arch. “Where did you hear that?”

“I read it in one of the cookbooks in the kitchen. They have a good collection.” Even shrugs. “I like to read cookbooks sometimes. You can learn a lot about a culture by its cuisine. How they eat and what and why.”

“It’s very Germanic.”

Even tilts his head. “Yes. Makes sense. Deutschland is right…” He points in one direction, and Isak gently redirects his hand. “There. Thanks.”

“I love beer and sausage.” Isak pats his non-existent stomach. “I’m getting used to the choucroute. I wasn’t at first.”

“I was going to try and make some.”

“Are you sure you’re ready for that?”

“My first night, I read two enormous Alsatian cookbooks. I have ambitious plans.”

“The cats aren’t keeping you busy enough?”

“Alice and Ellen are delightful. They do aerial ballet on those living room rafters every evening. Right in front of that pornographic painting of a human grasshopper. Dazzling.”

“Pornographic painting?”

“Oh, is it new? There’s this enormous painting of two dudes 69ing in the living room. It’s very large. A statement piece.”

They’d started walking without even noticing, or at least, Even hadn’t noticed. It was no different than a breeze or sunlight on his skin, the simple natural order of things. The cobblestone streets and gingerbread-style buildings, their shadows moving with them and with less distance, as if they were already more intimate than the men they belonged to.

As if in response to that, Isak leans in conspiratorially. “I’ve never actually been in the living room.”

“Are you not allowed?”

He shoots him a narrow-eyed look. “Of course I’m allowed. I don’t like being in the house. It’s the cats. They freak me out.”

“Do they scare you?”

“No,” Isak shoots back. His voice is fascinating. Musical and light, but with an underlying rasp. “I like cats. I had one as a kid. It’s those cats. They don’t…meow.”

Even laughs and Isak smiles up at him for a second, impishly. “Abyssinians are an unusual breed. They’re very doglike. They like to play and have company.”

“That’s what I mean. I don’t like that. If I wanted a dog, I’d get a dog. Cats that act like dogs are fucking weird-” Isak narrows his eyes. “What’s that face?”

“I was just wondering if that’s how you describe things in your thesis. As ‘fucking weird.’ Very scientific.”

Isak raises his hand and does a side-to-side head waggle. “Obviously not.” He turns to him, skipping sideways. “You won’t find juniper berries, by the way. They ripen in the fall. Picking them is a pain in the ass, but kind of Zen once you get into it.”

“Do you take care of those too?”

“The juniper trees at the house? They don’t really need my help. But come harvesting time, I have to keep the local bird population from picking them clean of berries.”

“Birds! Sounds scary.”

Even steps to the other side of Isak and takes his arm, pulling him out of the way of a couple with a stroller.

“Désolé,” Isak murmurs and Even nods to them as they pass. “Thanks.”

The wind ruffles Isak’s hair softly. _It’s nice to get away_ , Even thinks. But it’s nice to have a bit of home too. Like right now with Isak and their shared language. The familiarity of their experience.

“So. How do you fight them? With little swords?”

“Who?”

“Your enemies…the local bird population?”

“Ah.” Isak grins and sticks his hands in his pockets. “By netting the trees.”

Even imagines Isak on a ladder, throwing nets over the trees and yelling out in that rough-sweet voice of his. How cold is it in the fall? Is he still in those maddening shorts? Why is the thought of him in a sweater and jeans just as heart-racingly good? One or two of Isak's curls move gently in the breeze.

“What do we do now?”

 _We._ Even bounces on his feet. “Shop?”

Isak gives him a single assenting nod. “Let’s do it.”

Food shopping with Isak turns, not surprisingly, out to be a much better experience than if Even would have done it on his own. Not only because Isak has a much better grasp of which vegetables are in season and which ones are grown locally or organically, but also because it’s…nice. He’s nice.

They stroll toward the bakery, Isak balancing on the edge of the sidewalk so that Even has a slightly-from-below view of his angled jaw, that dip in his chin. A line of beauty marks on the side of his neck that Even didn’t notice before. He wonders if the skin there is as smooth to the touch as it looks.

He lets Isak choose the bread, a round sourdough loaf with a patterned crust shaped like a rose. “Appropriate.”

“What?” Isak looks up.

“The flower pattern on that bread. Seeing that you’re a gardener and all.”

Isak snorts. “That’s not why I picked it.”

“No?”

His eyebrows knit together. “I picked it because it’s the best bread.”

“The best bread. Really.”

“Of course it is. I picked it.”

Even has to look away, away from Isak’s lifted eyebrow and defiant chin, that what-about-it tilt to his head. His gaze lands on a tray of raspberry pastries on the counter. “Do you want some of those? For dessert?”

“Dessert? Sounds good.” Isak moves minutely closer. “For later.”

Even swallows. He quickly calls the lady behind the counter and tries his best school French to pay while Isak squirms at his side, obviously struggling to not laugh.

Their walk home is an easy one—bags dangling from their hands, elbows almost knocking into each other as they crowd up to the side of the road that’s narrowly shadowed by tall corn. The day is warm already, sun beating down on Even’s still-pale arms. Next to him, Isak’s skin is sun-kissed, his hair too, glinting in a way that Even’s doesn’t naturally. He lets Isak pass him so he can watch him from behind, the sun in the foreground and the soft green hills. Even can’t believe his luck. Here in this beautiful place, with someone who feels a little bit like home.

Isak turns his head, eyeing Even stealthily, then making like he’s scratching his chin on his shoulder. He raises his hand and brushes his hair to the side. Turning around for a moment and walking backwards in the corn, before spinning back. He’s smiling.

Even had almost forgotten about yesterday, whatever that was in the yard.

This pull that he feels toward Isak is unlike anything he’s ever felt with someone he’s just met. Talking to him is easy and warm, without awkwardness. Even could see himself doing ordinary things with Isak, like going to the beach back home, horsing around, having a drink, seeing a show. But he also wants to take off everything Isak’s wearing and breathe in his skin, be inside him, have him inside.

Closer to the house, they wind up side by side and Even wonders if kissing is out of the question. Here or among those roses. In the kitchen. On a bed. Anywhere.

Isak doesn’t break their quiet hour. He carries his own silence into the kitchen with Even, and despite his previous complaints about the cats, doesn’t protest when Alice and Ellen wind around his hairy blond legs like figure-eights.

Nina Simone records spin on the owner’s turntable. Even starts dinner and Isak helps. He washes what needs to be washed, preps what Even tells him to. Doesn’t complain about the menu or the music. When conversation starts again, it’s preceded by touch. Isak’s hand at his elbow, handing him a glass of Riesling, a light pour. Like he remembers Even saying he doesn’t like to drink too much. Isak drinks from a glass of beer with frozen raspberries for ice, and periodically licks the foam off his lips or spears the raspberries with his tongue. He grins lazily at Even. Listens to him talk about his movie ideas, the current script, this grant and the future, which feels like it’s shifting the more they speak.

They eat outside, under the pergola. Isak opens up, and it’s a pleasure to listen. He’s not an only child; he has a sister who lives in nearby Stuttgart that he visits once every couple of months. An unexpected benefit to being out here. He’s close to both his parents, who live in Oslo also. Football fan. Into rap music. Doesn’t have a TV. He thought he was binge-watching too much and not leaving his apartment enough. Can’t cook, but likes eating, so he’s learned to make himself useful in the kitchen. There’s a large group of friends back home that he’s missed during his time away. But being alone has been good for him too. Free to go wherever he wants. Like being close enough to drive to Strasbourg, where walking to Germany is just a stroll across a bridge.

“When do you go back?” Even asks, watching Isak roll a tiny ball he’s made of bread with his palm, back and forth on the table.

“In August.”

Even smiles. “It’s nearly August.”

“I know.”

After dinner, they go into the house and sit on the couch in that big living room. Isak tilts his head to look at the lurid painting that dominates the wall, then laughs.

“I think I figured it out. The guy on the bottom is on his stomach and there’s another guy who’s stretched out sideways on the other side of him, those are his feet.”

“So,” Even says slowly. “It isn’t sexual?”

Isak scrunches up his face in thought. “They are naked.”

“Just bros sunbathing in the nude right next to each other.”

"Or something.” There are tiny freckle-constellations on the bridge of Isak’s nose.

“Something.”

The cats come down from the gingerbread-style beams to sit on Isak’s lap and he acts like they aren’t even there, moving his hands expansively, great big, long-lashed eyes wide as he talks about his research.

“Are you almost done writing it all up?” Even asks.

“Oh.” He pouts and shrugs. “No, I’m pretty much finished. I’ve just been taking it easy.”

“You don’t seem like the taking-it-easy type.”

Isak eyes close momentarily, that dangerous-seeming smile returns, fleetingly. “I am.”

“Okay.”

“Do you want to read it? My thesis?”

Even does; he’s surprised he does. But he kind of wants to know everything about him.

Isak moves the cats off his lap and stands, stretching his arms overhead and twisting his torso. Next to him the cats stretch too. A matching set. All three are beautiful, green-eyed, and golden. Isak walks to the doorway, a loose-limbed strut, and without turning around, gestures with his hand.

“Come. It’s in my cottage.”

He goes through the doorway and into the cobalt blue twilight. Even gets up, a beat behind, and follows him across the courtyard, hopping from paving stone to paving stone as if they were rocks across a creek bed. The air is sweet-smelling, and while the evening is hot, there’s a sudden breeze and it feels like the garden wakes up all around them in one slow, semi-circle shiver.

Inside Isak’s stone cottage—a miniature version of the fairy tale-style main house—it’s cool and quiet. Isak turns on a lamp and its yellowed shade diffuses the light. The small sitting room is neater than Even expected, though he’s gratified to see signs of Isak’s occupancy. A postcard from Easter Island taped to the wall, a stack of scholarly journals on biodiversity―some in English and French, a pair of socks on the windowsill. He touches the blue stripes and turns to find Isak watching him, sitting on the arm of a worn armchair. The atmosphere has shifted and Even didn’t even notice. He’d walked in from one film and entered another. This one belongs to Isak and his torrid stare.

“You’re fucking beautiful.”

He’s had people tell him that before. But he’s never really believed them. He believes Isak though. He feels the burn of his words. How true they must be.

“I liked watching you touch yourself.” Isak’s voice is low. “Do it for me again.”

Even isn’t sure where to go, where to stand or sit, but he is sure that he wants to do what Isak’s asking of him. Before Isak had reached the end of the sentence, Even’s blood turned to syrup and went straight to his cock. He stumbles slightly to the small two-seater couch facing the armchair and sits, unzipping his shorts and pulling them down with one hand, freeing his cock and balls with the other. Isak’s heavy expression doesn’t change at all; there’s only the weight of his gaze dragging down his body.

“Unbutton your shirt,” Isak commands softly.

“Do it for me.”

Isak raises an eyebrow in response and Even manages to blush somehow, despite the fact that he’s so hard he didn’t think any of his blood could travel back up to his face. “Please,” he amends. “Do it for me.”

That does the trick. Isak saunters to the sofa and leans over. Even takes his cock in hand and pumps it as Isak gently trails his fingers down the front of Even’s bared neck until they reach fabric, popping open the first button, then the next as Even whines.

He never whines.

Another button, then the rest. Slower than slow. His eyes follow, like a caress.

“Don’t rush. Let me look at you.”

Isak puts his thumb in his mouth and sucks on it noisily, then uses that thumb to pinch Even’s nipple and Even blurts out, in a rush, “Fuck, I’ll come.” Isak lets go immediately, eyeing Even steadily until he breathes normally again.

Satisfied, Isak returns to his chair, sits down, pulls off his shirt, and spreads his legs. He strokes the bulge of his cock in his khaki shorts, fat and pointing north. Isak’s hand is leisurely.

“Match me. Do it at my pace.”

Even follows Isak’s breathing first. He watches Isak’s mouth, the rise and fall of his chest, falls into it so that he feels he _is_ Isak, in a way. When Even’s hand finally returns to his cock, he moans at the first small touch and to his surprise, Isak does too. At the same time, as one person seemingly. He’s way too close already.

“You’re going to, aren’t you, if you keep going?” Isak asks, nodding when Even nods. “Then take off those shorts and come here.”

He manages somehow, nearly falling over in his haste to undress, and leaves his open shirt on, which feels like the right choice. Particularly when Isak grabs it to pull him down onto his lap. Even doesn’t quite sit down, he stays on his knees, staring downward.

Isak looks up at him first, stroking Even’s thighs, and leans over to kiss right next to his belly button. It’s shockingly intimate and tender. That mouth kisses Even’s skin as if he’s done it a hundred times and loves it still. Which makes no sense. Those lips haven’t even touched his yet.

As if he can read Even’s thoughts, Isak grabs Even by the neck. He’s not rough about it but it feels forceful. As deliberate as it is careful. As if Even is fruit to be picked and cannot be bruised.

Isak raises his face slightly and pauses. His lips are wet and parted but he doesn’t press them against Even’s. There is no impatience or impetuousness to be found in his expression; he simply waits as Even searches.

A rush of feelings enters the moment, unbidden, and despite the rampant proof of their lust, Even forgets the carnal. He thinks Isak’s eyes could never stop telling him stories, love stories, theirs. He hopes that’s what they are. Endless love stories.

It’s with that thought blooming in his head that Even slots his mouth to Isak’s and kisses him with everything that’s inside him. Long enough for Even to coax out all sorts of noises from that pretty mouth. Licking the teasing curves of Isak’s top lip. Sucking fullness into his bottom lip. They kiss until Isak pulls away to giggle, so sweetly, that Even does too.

“What?”

Isak lifts Even up slightly so that he’s not sitting on Isak’s thighs anymore but on his knees on either side of Isak’s torso. Isak slumps back and slides down so that his face is right in front of Even’s still-so-hard cock.

“Come on my tongue. Yeah?”

He’s got a big, wide tongue and it’s hot as fuck. Isak’s eyes seem to gleam too, and there’s no question that he is very much into this. Even’s in his own way so he can’t really see Isak’s cock, but Isak’s shoulder moves at the same pace. Now Isak’s the one echoing.

Perhaps Even should go faster, but he doesn’t. He slows down and in response, Isak does as well. Carefully, Even moves a little closer, places his cock on that shiny tongue, and Isak’s tongue flicks at the underside, eyes narrowing.

Even likes it, seeing Isak’s mouth open like that, his neck angled just so, and as slow as he’s going, his orgasm still rushes through him. He comes on Isak’s tongue, chin, and before he can pull back and coax a bit more of himself on that chest, Isak leans forward and sucks the tip into his mouth. Eyes on his and draining him dry.

As he sucks, Isak mewls, the sound vibrating, and Even gasps at the sensation. Isak’s still jerking off, not quite there yet. Shakily, Even grips Isak’s jaw and pulls at his mouth, so he can slip himself out. Isak groans in seeming complaint, but Even shimmies down to the floor, leaning over Isak’s hand and licking wherever he can until his mouth takes over entirely.

He blows Isak and Isak’s stomach muscles jump, straining with every breath. When Even chances to look up, Isak’s gazing at him with a helpless sort of look, his lips and chin still shiny with spit and spunk.

“Even,” Isak manages before he starts to shoot in Even’s mouth. Isak repeats his name and Even closes his eyes, using his hand too, to slow down Isak’s climax to half the pace they were going at before it started. Stretching out each sensation. The warm come pulses inside, on his tongue, and Even keeps sucking until the trembling of Isak’s thighs ramps up under his palms.

Finally, Isak’s gasps turn into whimpers and Even slides off, relaxes, resting his sweaty face on Isak’s thighs and sliding both hands up to Isak’s waist and gripping him there in a loose-limbed sort of hug. His open shirt has ridden up his back; the sweat there cools and Even laughs. Over his head, Isak laughs too. Even gazes up to see it, how beautiful he is, laughing in the dim yellowed lamplight. Quieting down to a smile. Those eyes are a soft sort of green. Familiar.

Isak strokes Even’s hair with a tenderness that doesn’t match who they are―strangers, essentially. Here for the summer and gone.

They can’t really be this gone.

“So am I going to read your thesis?”

Isak throws his head back, laughing more forcefully than before. “Did you really think I was going to make you read my thesis? Have you ever read a thesis?”

Even frowns. “But. That’s why I followed you. Was this…was I…seduced?”

“Well, yeah.”

“Shit.”

Isak’s fingers keep stroking his hair and Even’s breath slows. He loses track of time and when Isak scoots forward, lifting him up, and whispering about going to bed, Even almost does.

He goes into the bedroom and gets into Isak’s bed, the two of them making themselves comfortable against one another, with Isak wiping his face on the pillow case. Even sits up.

“The cats.”

“Fuck the cats, come back.”

“I have to go.” Even returns to the living room, stubs his toe against one of the chairs, and finds his shorts and underwear. He looks around for his shoes before remembering he hadn’t worn any.

He goes to say goodnight to Isak and he’s already asleep, arm stretched out toward the door, as if reaching for him. Even watches him sleep, as beautiful as cinema, and decides to write him a note. He writes it fast, so he doesn’t overthink it. He wanted to stay and couldn’t, but Isak should come over tomorrow and stay with him. Sleep with him, all night. Even wants to wake up to Isak’s eyes, that smile, that changeling face, to those hands touching him all over. From his earlobe to the inside of a knee, to his cock. He folds the letter in half and puts it under Isak’s water glass.

Even’s seen a lot of movies, he knows that unless he leaves it somewhere obvious, Isak won’t get the letter. And Isak needs to get the letter.

Isak’s wrist faces up and Even leans down and kisses it.

Back in the main house bedroom, Alice and Ellen make themselves comfortable on a chaise lounge, and look unsurprised when Even tells them that he likes Isak so much. Wants him so fucking much. They narrow their eyes into sleep, and Even, amenable and lax, follows.

* * *

When Even wakes the next day it’s in the same fashion as all the previous days here. On his back, in the large double bed of the master bedroom, sun filtering in through the linen curtains, and he’s alone. Warm and heavy, and when his thoughts stray to Isak and last night there’s that under-the-skin tickle.

Isak and his challenging eyes. What it would be like to have him here, close enough to breathe in and mold himself against. If Isak would want to.

Would he?

The note. It’s all there: how much Even wants him. What he wants. Even meant it last night and he still means every word, but it’s…a lot. Perhaps too much.

Perhaps he should sneak in and take the note away before Isak sees it and freaks out over the extent of Even’s desire, his lack of boundaries. He winces. Slides out of bed and ignores his morning boner to pull on a pair of shorts.

As soon he creaks open the bedroom door, however, there’s the smell of coffee. Increasing in intensity as Even makes his way down the stairs and into the kitchen where Isak stands, two empty cups on the kitchen island in front of him and the coffee machine gurgling at his back. The loaf of bread they bought yesterday is on a wooden board, and the fruits lie cut up in slices on a platter.

“Hi.” Isak’s smile is wide, those parentheticals at the corners like a frame. “Slept well?”

Even slides his hands into his short pockets. “I did. You?”

“Me too.” Isak turns to the fridge, reaching for a carton of milk. “And the cats?”

Even laughs. “They always sleep well. They’re very well-behaved.”

“Yeah. That’s what unsettles me.”

There’s those narrowed eyes again, like slits. Just like that moment when Even placed his cock on Isak’s tongue.

He swallows, and takes a step closer to the kitchen island in an attempt to have it hide his crotch and the probably far-too-obvious bulge there. Isak eyes him up and down, setting the carton of milk on the counter. It’s like being read, examined like one of the rose bushes out in the yard, except that this stare. It melts him.

Could he kiss Isak now? Would that be allowed? Or would it be too much, too presumptuous?

Slowly, Isak sets his hands on the countertop, swaying slightly forward. His eyes are on Even still. “Did you shower already?”

Even pulls at the hem of his sleeping t-shirt. “No.”

“Go take one. Don’t touch yourself.” Isak sucks his upper lip in between his teeth, still smiling. “Meet me outside when you’re done.”

It’s funny, Even thinks as he retreats to the bathroom, how assertive Isak can sound when he wants to—commanding, but at the same time kind. It’s sweet as well as hot, but it also stirs at something deep inside Even, makes him want to be taken care of as well as give back.

Isak sits under the pergola, but stands as Even exits into the yard: a spring to his step as he walks around the table and meets Even halfway, on the lawn next to the hollyhock. He stops a half meter away and Even bites his lip. Is this where he’ll be told that they should step this down? Take it a bit easy?

But Isak’s hand comes up to Even’s cheek. Fingers combing through his hair and running down his neck. Even closes his eyes and there are lips too, a quick peck at the side of his jaw, then just under his ear.

“You smell good.”

“You too.” It’s true. The scent of Isak’s newly washed hair, his shower gel, of the flowers surrounding them. It’s intoxicating.

“You forgot something in your…letter.” Isak’s teeth scrape along the muscles on his neck and Even shivers despite the heat.

“Okay?”

“I don’t have to wake up next to you to touch you.” Isak’s hands land on his hips, then slide around to the small of his back. Calloused palms tickling on his skin as Isak’s hands bunch up his t-shirt and push it up to his shoulder blades. “Would you like to lie down?”

“In your house?” Even glances to the side.

“No. Here.” The hoarse vibration of Isak’s voice tickles at his ear.

There are no real neighbors here. The house guards them on one side, the garden on the other. The small dirt road out front carries barely any traffic, and it’s hidden from view by the thick hedges of holly. The only open view is of a meadow, the rolling hills beyond that, and the only living creatures Even’s ever seen there are birds and the occasional lost sheep.

“If it’s okay.” Isak’s fingertips dip down under the hem of his shorts. “I want to touch you.”

“Okay.”

It’s almost like lying down on a plush carpet; with how stubbornly Isak has kept the lawn in check, it’s nearly soft as velvet.

Isak touches him slowly, but not without hunger: he runs his hands over Even’s belly, his chest, pushing his t-shirt up to his armpits. Bends over to lick at his nipple, lips closing around it and sucking, that wide, warm tongue licking, then a sharp pinch of his teeth.

“Fuck.” Even throws his hand up over his eyes.

“Good?” Isak’s tongue gives him another lick.

Even laughs, delirious with how Isak’s thumb and forefinger play with the now-wet, sensitized nipple while his mouth moves to the other one. The same procedure there. Kiss, suck, lick, bite. Again. And again. “Yes. So good.”

“Good.” Isak’s hands trail down his sides, as gently as Isak might handle a branch with newly sprung-out apple blossoms, a stark contrast to how determinedly his mouth is still working on Even’s nipple. “I like touching you.”

I like you, Even wants to say. Instead, he sighs as Isak kisses down his belly and over his shorts, warm breath on his cock through the fabric.

Maybe it’s wishful thinking, but when Isak tells him to turn over in that hoarse voice, it both sounds and feels tender. His shorts are pulled down mid-thigh, his underwear too, a light breeze on the newly-exposed skin, and Even places his face on his arms and breathes.

Usually, Even isn’t one to yield like this. He likes a certain amount of give and take, sure, but normally he wouldn’t feel comfortable with letting himself get maneuvered around and undressed like this. In stark daylight, outside, with every little blemish on his skin displayed. But with Isak, he wants it. He wants everything Isak has to give.

One of Isak’s thumbs knead into the small of his back. Presses down on the swell of his ass, out to the side and back towards the middle, slowly working its way down his crack. Even closes his eyes and feels the damp warmth of Isak’s mouth return on the back of his neck, teeth closing around the column of his spine.

“Is this okay?” Isak’s breath is hot on the shell of his ear. Another peck on his cheek, his jaw, at the angle of his mouth. Even smiles, chasing Isak’s lips and is rewarded with a sideways sloppy kiss, the tip of Isak’s tongue sticking in from the side and licking. The awkward angle makes it sweeter somehow; as if they need to kiss. As if neither of them can go another second without.

Even didn’t write it in his note but he could have: how much he craves Isak’s mouth. How it fascinates him. It’s all new and surprising. That wave of Isak’s lip, how it glistens when he’s licked it, like he does when he’s considering. How it stretches with his barely-contained smiles. How one corner of his mouth can tell one story and the second another—the contradiction of it. Those teeth.

Thinking of all this, he savors the kiss, sucks at Isak’s tongue best as he can from this angle, and groans when Isak’s mouth disappears from his.

Isak laughs shortly, and the hand on Even’s ass grabs tighter, thumb pressing just above his rim. Even shivers when Isak shuffles down, quick kisses along Even’s spine down to the top of his ass. Even can’t spread his legs due to his shorts mid-thigh, but he wants to. He really wants to.

He sighs into the grass when Isak does it for him: uses his free hand to pull his shorts and underwear all the way down one leg. His clothes end up bunched up around his other thigh, but Even doesn’t care. Only lets Isak push his knee up to the side and spread him open.

Even holds his breath as Isak licks his way across the top of his ass, then continues down, down his crack. The lawn is soft and nearly-damp against his front, his cock hard and pressing into it, and as Isak’s tongue licks a straight, wide line over his rim, Even groans.

Even remembers the width of it last night—waiting for Even, for his come. And after, that stare fixed on him as Isak sucked him clean. All of Isak’s mouth; Even could never tire of it.

Isak holds Even’s ass apart with his hands, gentle palms stretching him open while his tongue keeps working. Broad strokes making him wet, then sharper prods at his hole, a tap. Lick, nudge, lick, nudge, until Even gives and Isak slips inside. All of that tongue, entering him. Stretching him out with care.

Even moans into the lawn, hands grabbing at nothing but the short straws, too little to settle him. It’s so good. He finds the back of his own knee instead, pulling at it, trying to open himself as much as possible for Isak, letting him know that Even is his.

He’s rewarded with a thumb pressing down on his rim, not inside but just on the verge. A request for permission. Even moans, ready to let it in. Ready to let Isak do anything.

Isak’s thumb presses down more sharply, and then his tongue slips out, the air chilly on Even’s wet skin.

“What- Don’t stop. Please.”

The thumb remains on his rim but Isak’s other hand slides up his lower back, stroking.

“I need lube if I’m going to finger you.” The calm in Isak’s voice only makes it hotter. “Do you want that?”

“Fuck yes.”

“Okay.” Isak laughs shortly before his hands disappear. “Patience.”

While Isak digs around in his shorts pockets, Even looks up. Tries to take in that he’s really lying here half-naked on a lawn under the sun, bare and wanting and about to have Isak’s fingers inside of him. It’s everything: Isak breathing behind him, the sounds of the wind in the trees, the greenery surrounding them.

Right now, he feels so fucking lucky. He really does.

When Isak’s finger breaches him, it feels caring too. Like Isak deems him worthy of it. One finger carefully sliding in, then out, that warm tongue licking beside it, soothing. Isak’s other hand presses his ass down into the lawn and Even can only give in to it. The sensation of Isak’s tongue and finger, that warm buzz of intense pleasure when he presses down just right.

“Oh fuck.” He bucks up against Isak’s palm.

“There?” Isak kisses the back of his thigh while his finger keeps rubbing in light, tiny circles, light enough to make Even’s head spin.

It’s a rhetorical question, Even is sure. Isak must know how he has him completely in his hands. Just like he’s shaped and trimmed all these bushes and flowers surrounding them.

He only moans, lying still and thinking of absolutely nothing at all while Isak’s finger continues circling and pressing, back and forth. Stopping and continuing. As if, despite never having done this to him before, he knows exactly how to play Even. How to take him a little further each time, to the edge but never past it. It makes Even’s head spin, his vision green and black and liquid.

Isak bites the meat of his ass lightly, then licks across it. “I’ll use two now. Okay?”

Even isn’t really sure how to form words, just nods into the grass and breathes against the feeling of Isak’s fingers. Two of them stretching him and then going straight for the kill: rubbing over his prostate with clear determination, as if his goal is to drive Even out of his mind.

“Fuuuuuck.” Isak’s tongue returns, this time to lick around his fingers, and when the tip presses in just beside them, it’s so good and so much that Even’s eyes flutter open again.

Over by the hammock, two pairs of eyes are watching. Storks, with branches in their hot pink beaks, white and black-feathered wings flapping. They move around gingerly on their long legs and stare at Even as if he was part of the foliage. He waves an arm at them weakly, and just at that moment, Isak rubs inside him in a particularly delicious way, and he groans, long and loud.

If Even had a hand around himself, he would come. He’s sure of this.

“You want to touch yourself?” Isak’s breath is hot on his skin, hot as the sun, as if he could hear Even’s thoughts.

When Isak grabs his hips and lifts them, Even feels like he’s floating. Fingers still inside his ass and Isak, close to him, holding him up with his other hand, his still-clothed erection pressing against the back of Even’s thigh.

In a way, Even would like to draw this out. Keep himself teetering on the edge until he can’t take it anymore, have Isak’s hands on him, in him, for as long as possible. It only takes a few tugs of his trembling hand for him to realize that it’s not going to happen—just a short while later it’s over, his orgasm rolling through him as he clenches around Isak’s fingers, that black and green light pulsing in his head until it flattens out.

He stays there, panting, while Isak gently slips his fingers out. Then, much more hurriedly from the sound of it, Isak opens his pants and moans loudly, the sound accompanied by the slap-slap of his hand.

Even shivers from realizing what’s happening: that Isak’s jerking himself off to the sight of him, ass up in the air, hole empty and gaping. He keeps his eyes closed as the warm spurts of come land on him, on his ass, the back of his thighs. Isak’s thumb returns to rub gently, so gently, over his rim, and Even smiles as the tip of it slips back inside: another display of Isak’s thoroughness, as if he wants to be sure he’s done Even real good.

Eventually, Isak shuffles up beside him, hand around his neck with that careful grip. Across the way, the storks flap their black and white wings and fly up to the roof of the cottage, assembling what looks to be an impressive nest. Even laughs silently, rubbing his cheek on the grass. “We had an audience.”

“Where?” Behind him, Isak jumps up as if ready to fight any voyeur, something―his shirt?―landing on Even’s lower back. Even points upwards in the direction of the storks and Isak bounds over toward the cottage, yelling, “Fuck off!”

The storks clack their bills at him, the sound louder than anything they’ve just done, and Isak sighs. “Storks. They’re the official bird of this region. Those fuckers can nest wherever they want and we have to let them.”

Even drifts a little, enjoying the sun. Until the light dims as if clouds are passing over.

“I didn’t think this through.”

“Hmm?” Even manages and opens an eye.

Isak smiles down at him, nose crinkled. “The coffee’s gone cold by now.”

“I will drink whatever’s on offer. But first let me get the feeling in my legs back.”

He helps Even up and back in his clothes. “Did you throw your shirt on me to protect my modesty?” 

Isak's sheepish expression is adorable. “Well, yeah, I got you naked out here. I can’t have some random pervs check out your ass.”

“Are you calling those storks pervs? I’m pretty sure they were just minding their business and came across this depravity accidentally.”

He strokes Even’s hair back from his face. Leans in to touch the tip of his nose to his. “Was that what you think it was?”

Even’s pretty sure Isak doesn’t want to know what he thinks it was.

Cold coffee is more than fine and Even forgoes another shower, content to be sticky and aching deliciously. To eat bread and fruit and gaze out at the green hills. At that curl hanging in front of Isak’s face, the one Isak can’t quite tame.

“So,” Isak says, licking his lower lip. He seems hesitant. “Do you have work you need to get to today?”

All he can think of is spending time with Isak. Spending as much time as possible before Isak gets sick of him or Even leaves for home or whatever thing will happen to make this stop. Even’s throat feels like it’s not quite working, so he says nothing. Shakes his head.

“Because I’d love to spend it with you, if you’re interested.” Isak’s casual tone is underscored by the way his leg jiggles under the table.

If happiness is a bright flare then Even thinks he might be emitting light. “That’s all I want.”

And that’s all they do.

Time passes fast and slow, in ordinary and extraordinary ways. They walk together and talk, they sleep and breathe. Sighing into each other’s mouths, and eyes to eyes. Isak is a warm weight on his back at night. An ornery squint in the morning. A high, bright laugh that seems to float above their heads whenever they sit outside. He’s a sequence of impossible gestures that Even can’t quite predict and wants to document, like the scientist Isak is. Even would be an Isak scientist.

“You don’t tend to the garden as much as you used to. You’re slacking.”

Isak’s eyebrow raise is majestically slow. “I didn’t really need to do all that.”

“No?”

“Of course not. But how else was I going to see the show?”

“The show?” Even laughs. “Me losing my mind in a corner?”

“You in that hammock, swinging back and forth.”

“What? I was just chillin’.”

“Your penis wasn’t.” Isak’s smile widens. “I didn’t mind. Time well spent.”

Even doesn’t let himself think about what will happen when his time is up here.

Isak is dinner in Strasbourg, beer foam on his lip. Walking across a footbridge into Germany and back. He is the person that helps him get his watch fixed in a tiny store run by a sweet, stooped old man they can barely understand. He is a late start and an early morning. A man who insists he’s an amazing juggler, but drops the apples almost immediately after starting, getting a startled hiss out of the cats. Isak is kindness. He buys chocolates and wine just for Even, though prefers beer and savories for himself. He patiently explains his thesis and only seems slightly annoyed when Even jumps him before he can finish explaining. He is wet sheets hanging on a line because they smell better when they dry that way apparently. Isak is a slow dance that continues unabated even when the music speeds up. Just his cheek, its soft stubble, against Even’s.

When they fuck, like, really fuck, he is a palm pressed against Even’s palm, thrusting into him with exquisite precision. Isak is a long column of throat, glistening with sweat and thrown back, and riding Even despite his deep aversion to the cats that are somewhere in the room. More silent than the storks.

“You know what I’m looking forward to when we get back to Oslo?” he asks blithely as Even’s breath catches, waiting as ever for the end of the idyll. “Fucking without animals watching our every move. Seriously, what the fuck.”

Even recovers enough to smile and say, “Not even an aquarium?”

“Absolutely not. Just you and me. I. Whatever.” Crooked smile, nostril-flare, thick eyelashes.

He changes Even’s story every single day until it feels like something more than his own. Something that they’ll keep telling, together.

* * *

As much as Even wishes that their time here would never run out, it does eventually. A warm early August night is their last, the kind where dark falls earlier than expected, fought away by the candle jars Isak carried from the cottage and placed on the table under the pergola.

Initially, they’d planned on walking into town for dinner, but ended up having it here, at home. A silent agreement, as if neither of them wanted others to interfere on this last night together.

“Won’t you miss this garden when you’re home?” Even stretches his arm out on the garden sofa, behind Isak’s shoulders.

Isak shrugs. “A bit.”

“You’ve worked hard on it and now you won’t see the results.”

Even strokes his thumb behind Isak’s ear. His hair’s gotten longer during their weeks here, curling at the ends, and there’s a new freckle on his temple. Simple things, but Even likes them—likes seeing Isak change with time, and he wants to keep doing it. Wants to walk alongside him into the future, in different places, in the summers to come.

“Maybe I’ll come back here next summer and see it.” Isak leans his head back on Even’s arm. “Or…maybe not.”

“No?” Even isn’t sure what they’re talking about now, if it’s only the house or something else. His palms are damp.

“I was thinking. Maybe next year, I’d like to rent something more…private.”

“This isn’t private enough for you?” Even gestures to the lawn, the exact spot where Isak took him apart in full daylight, and Isak laughs.

“We can’t just count on renting both these houses again, don’t you think?” Isak takes a sip from his glass and Even’s heart skips a beat. Again. “Besides, I already told you. No more fucking animals watching us.”

“You’re the one who wanted to get a hand job in a cornfield.”

He looks so at ease, Isak—one leg slung over the other, his gaze fixed on one of the jasmine bushes at the side of the pergola—but in the past few weeks, Even has learnt to read him better. There’s a tiny tightness to his jaw, a tip of tongue wetting his upper lip, that Even has learnt means a certain expectancy. He brushes his thumb on Isak’s shoulder.

“But you’re right. Next summer? An isolated cabin. Animal-proof. You and me.”

Isak gives him a quick sideways glance. “Yeah?”

“Yeah.” Even smiles. “Sounds like a plan.”

He watches Isak’s smile bloom, that side-to-side unfurling, his eyes shining in the dim evening light. His flushed cheeks.

“That’s a long way away though.” He lifts his hand to Isak’s jaw, brushing a strand of sun-blonde hair behind his ear. “You’ll need to practice your skills then. So you don’t forget.”

“I don’t think I’ll forget how to cut down a rose bush, Even,” Isak deadpans.

“Oh, you think I was talking about gardening?” Even pinches his upper arm. “I was referring to your…other skills.”

Isak lifts an eyebrow. “Which ones? I have many.”

“You do.” Even laughs. “I was thinking…all of them?”

“When we get home?”

What is home? Oslo? Even’s apartment? Isak’s? Some combination of the two or something altogether new? It doesn’t seem to matter. For the first time ever, Even doesn’t feel the weight of those questions. They’ve already been answered. The matter is as settled as this evening: the blue of its twilight and the promise of autumn just up ahead.

Even moves his hand to the back of Isak’s neck, stroking. Watches the carefree lift of Isak’s chin, the slight uptick of his smile.

“Yeah. When we get home.”

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you to:
> 
> ashotofjac for kindly proofreading on the quick.
> 
> pillowlava for "the human grasshopper" and naming the Kessler twins. 
> 
> Come talk to us on Tumblr, we're [ghostcat3000](http://www.ghostcat3000.tumblr.com) and [irazor](http://www.irazor.tumblr.com) there.


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